The Oddities of Mister Kirkland
by Hellie Ace
Summary: Life is full of strange decisions, and Alfred is left to reflect on his. The strangest, he decides, is falling in love. USUK. One-shot.


The Oddities of Mister Kirkland

There's nothing quite like him. There's no way to compare. It's really the strangest thing.

His hips are too wide for a man's, his shoulders too slender. His skin is too pale, and his thighs are riddled with scars. He can never seem to properly dress himself: always with clothing too baggy or gaudy sweaters. He eats the strangest foods or doesn't eat at all. I can't always understand his accent when he speaks too fast. Those eyebrows are hardly attractive either.

He tends to have nightmares, and waking to him screaming is never enjoyable. Sometimes I get hot and uncomfortable on hazy summer nights when he's got a death grip on me. He shivers and whines as his dreams hurt him and it's like watching snake venom crawl into my veins. There's nothing I can do, and moving only makes it worse. I've tried. I've tried to help him. But really, he's beyond saving.

So am I. Or so they tell me. But I prefer not to mention it.

No. Arthur is the one who doesn't know why he suffers. He merely does. It took time to coax it from him, but eventually I learned his past. I hated the pain in his eyes as he fell to his knees when he finally told me. He gazed up at me with a loving smile that chilled me. Ice bit me, and I felt the piercing of his genuine affections. I didn't understand then, but looking back, I think it's the one clear thing about him. Arthur was looking for someone to accept him without question. I gave him just that. That day is very far away now.

He's grown up since then. He tells me I haven't though, but I know he is only being playful. I am younger than him, yet he never seems to assert his age. He lets me take him. He lets me lead. He lets me decide. But I'm grateful for it.

I am not ashamed to admit I have problems with control. I would never hurt Arthur, but the very idea of losing all control makes my stomach tighten with nausea. I've tried to overwhelm it, but even beside Arthur I lose my nerve. I even know he wouldn't hurt me either. He's the gentlest man I know.

That's also strange.

He's abrasive and aggressive towards everyone but me. He hates crowds, but has a sick fondness for alcohol. I can smell it on his breath many nights when work keeps me until late at night. The rank scent of cheap beer makes my nose curl, but the hazy way he'll whisper my name under the influence is intoxicating. He'll quietly slip his arms around me and we'll crawl into bed together.

Sometimes we'll have sex, but other nights we'll just entwine our limbs. It's a pleasant feeling either way. Despite the fact his body his bony and his hips sharp, I let him press close. Those terribly horrendous pajamas he loves will scratch my skin, yet I would never consider pushing him away.

I find it strange that all these things are and do transpire. And there are nights when I question what we have while I rub his back and listen to his soft breathing.

But it's the nights when he slinks beneath me and lets me have him that I can never doubt. There's never the question, only a purr of encouragement or a soft gasp. I'll growl and kiss his too pale skin in response.

Teasing him yields different results every night. Sometimes it's with a playful hand that he'll ask for more. Other times it's a rough kiss that tells me he needs me then and there without an extra touch. The occasional nip at my neck is always the best though. It means he's still okay even as I strip him of control.

I like that about Arthur.

He's the strangest man I know I will ever know.

But I like him for everything that he gives to me. It's too much to count. Too much to give a numeric value.

I can't measure the amount of pleasure I feel rocking against him. Nor can I describe the way he'll cry my name and call for God as we move. The sheen of sweat only accents how deep the flush is against his alabaster skin. The way a mop of gold will tangle against the pillow is unexplainable. His hands on me burns me with affection, and I find myself craving even more of him despite the fact that we are seamlessly joined.

The too hot feeling of when we come close to the end is not like the humid misery I feel as Arthur suffers his nightmares. It's a heat we both love. Back and forth, I slide in and slide out. He moans to the beat we stir up with the drum of our hearts and press of our bodies.

It's a strange process. Sex, I mean. At least sex with Arthur, anyways.

Climax leaves him breathless, and the white of his seed leaves a dappling pattern across his stomach. I always smile when he reaches ecstasy. I like to know he's okay.

It always makes it easier for me to finish as well. I don't think I ever could if I knew Arthur was hurting. So his climax is more important than mine. Seeing him sated is the most satisfying feeling for me.

He seems to know the pattern as well. Once he finishes, he'll always bring himself to let me press in deeper. He'll encourage a rougher pace no matter how many times I tell him I want to move him as I always do. I don't like moving faster for the sake of reaching orgasm faster. Drawing out the span of time I find myself connected to him is motivation enough to move to an unbroken rhythm.

He doesn't generally protest this. Rather, he relaxes and takes me in with greater ease than before. I'll smile at this despite its frequent occurrence. I don't know why though. I think it's because I know Arthur loves it. He loves my smile. He tells me that often. I don't think I'll ever grow tired of hearing it either.

When I finish, he sighs. It's like he's expelling the fear that I would not be satisfied without the tempo of a man in a rush. Little does he know that it's the very fact that he worries for my pleasure that makes me find him even stranger.

I can't recall the last time I wore a condom, and so I simply withdraw and lay beside him once I'm done. He'll comment on how it's rude to make a mess without cleaning it up, but I never move. He's strange, and so I know he likes the idea of my seed still being inside him. I don't think he actually feels it, but he imagines he does.

I smile again when he curls up. He likes to tuck his head beneath my chin and let me hold him. We're still coated in sweat, and the stale scent is going to be unpleasant in the morning. But sharing a shower always cures such ailments.

Waking up though is an even stranger notion with Arthur than sex.

I always rise before him. He prefers sleeping in, and sometimes I'll join him. It's always those mornings that I understand so much.

I'll wait for him to wake. When he does, it's a like a moment undefined.

His eyes flicker open, and I am greeted by the sight of emeralds so precious that I will guard them with my life.

Really, Arthur's eyes are as captivating as a siren's song. They're just as deadly too. Resisting is impossible, and I will crash my lips to his like a sailor bashed on the craggy rocks. He'll laugh against the kiss, always vague and strange. It's a happy laugh that makes my heart hurt.

But the pain is pleasant. Just another reminder that Arthur is a man built upon strange.

I'll cup his cheek, and he'll lean into it, content to let me touch. I groom my fingers over the soft skin, smoothing back his wild, golden tresses. The soft way he'll breath, endlessly watching me with affection, is often too much for me. I'll lean closer, and tell him how stunning he is. He'll laugh again, trying to dismiss it. But there's never a chance of me allowing such denial. I remind him again and again. I kiss and touch every inch of warm skin I can find. I'll kiss his soft lips. I'll cherish the shimmer in his eyes as the morning light filters into our bedroom.

He's beautiful.

I have never met beauty in a man before Arthur. I've never seen it even after we have been together so long. It hasn't waned at all. I doubt it ever will.

But as I nuzzle his neck, before moving to seal my lips to his, I realize I have been terribly rude.

Let me introduce myself. I live in an apartment. I have two cats and a job in corporate America. And I always have a very strange man in my bed.

We live a strange life, have strange pasts. And he is the strangest aspect of it all.

Thankfully, I love strange things.

My name is Alfred Foster Jones, and I am madly in love with Arthur Kirkland.


End file.
